


Landslide

by KyloTrashForever



Series: Oneshots [45]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: (I mean no one has proved there weren't sexy shenanigans between TLJ and TROS), (technically) - Freeform, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canon Compliant, F/M, Force Bond Shenanigans, Light Angst, Post-Star Wars: The Last Jedi, Public Masturbation, Set between TLJ and TROS, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:00:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23178097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyloTrashForever/pseuds/KyloTrashForever
Summary: “Say it,” he half-whispers. “Tell me you want me to go.”“I…” Her mouth remains parted, her throat feels too dry—and the words are there, trapped on her tongue and waiting for her to release them. “I want…”She does, she thinks, mostly, she does. She wants him to go. It’s just that when he looks at her like he is, with those dark eyes of his, she is reminded of that whisper of what could be; she almost forgets about what is.“You can’t do it,” he accuses. “Because you don’t actually want it.”He’s watching her eyes and her mouth and everywhere that he can look, studying, she thinks, for signs that she doesn’t want it, the way he leans in. Treating her carefully, delicately—showing her that promise of something she’s only seen in a daydream, in a nightmare.Showing her a piece of Ben Solo.In which Rey bares more of herself than she means to.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Series: Oneshots [45]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1321118
Comments: 75
Kudos: 818
Collections: Reylo Prompt Fills (@reylo_prompts)





	Landslide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Yours_Truly_Commander_Shepard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yours_Truly_Commander_Shepard/gifts).



> TODAY IS SHEP'S BIRTHDAY! 🎉  
> A couple of weeks ago she mentioned someone should write her this for her birthday, so. Here we are. This should have definitely been crack, and yet somehow I got... this weird angsty thing. So, I'M SORRY.
> 
> I called this landslide for no other reason than upon hearing I don't care for country music Shep vehemently shouted THE DIXIE CHICKS?! at me.  
> Based on this prompt: _Ben and Rey use their bond to one-up each other and keep the other off balance. They’ve graduated to sending NSFW images (masturbating in public, imagined force choking) not realizing they’re revealing their kinks to each other in the process._  
> 

It starts with a kiss. 

It’s been difficult, shutting him out, more difficult than Rey could have ever anticipated. 

After Crait, she had put up a wall in the bond, one that she had hoped would save her from his prodding, from his suggestion that she made the wrong choice. 

She learned very quickly that there are chinks in her armor. Fissures in her walls that he is _just_ able to work himself between. Like a snake, she thinks. Something she once accused him of being. He still is, to be fair, but it’s complicated now. The picture of him she’s painted in her mind is warped and askew, making it nearly impossible to see it clearly. 

Sometimes it’s just a whisper, just a crooning of what could have been, what could still _be_ —and it’s strange, probably, that these are the instances she feels relief from. 

Because it is the images that are far, far worse. 

Sometimes she sees herself on a throne. Sees Be- _Kylo_ seated atop it with her at his side. She knows this is what he wants, but she also knows it’s something she vehemently _doesn’t._

Sometimes he sends her daydreams that are innocent; he shows her what it might be like if she were to let him train her. If she were to open herself up to all he could teach her. It’s tempting, something she will never admit, but sometimes she finds herself wondering what she _could_ be under his guiding hand. 

And then there is the worst of it, because sometimes he shows her things that have become her worst fear, if only for how much she thinks she might _want_ it. 

Because sometimes Kylo Ren shows her a kiss. 

It’s not something she’s ever experienced, this simple act of affection. She knows the mechanics, can see them in his dark flashes of desire that he whispers into her mind—and it’s the hardest of his tactics to weather. 

Maybe because Rey knows deep down that this desire isn’t his alone. 

She felt it in that throne room, had wondered then what it might be like to feel his mouth against hers. She’d heard the pounding of her own heart, had seen the warmth in his eyes, and she’d _felt_ it—what might have been. Before it all had gone down in the flames that had burned all around them.

And he knows, she thinks. What it does to her. He has to, with the way they come more frequently. Like a siren song that only she can hear. 

For a while it kept her unbalanced, kept her in a perpetual state of _wrongness_ that she thinks her friends might have even picked up on. She would see his mouth on her when she ate in the galley, she would feel his lips when she worked in the hangar, she would hear his soft breath in her ear when she sat amongst the other Resistance members during debriefings. 

And it might have driven her crazy, in fact, she _knows_ it would have—so close to breaking with no idea how to fight back. 

Until she found her answer by accident.

It was a kiss, always a kiss, his mouth heavy and warm and _so real_ as if he were actually there, and Rey had felt the pressure of it weighing down on her like a landslide that’s buried her beneath it, and it had been an accident, what had happened next.

Because she sent something back. 

She thinks it was merely that she succumbed to the weight of her own desire, when she pushed images into his head of her as not a bystander to his kisses, not some victim of his mouth, but an active _participant._ She imagined her lips moving with his, her tongue meeting his prodding, and her _hands_ wandered to map his body beneath them in a way she’s only imagined in her darkest daydreams. 

She’d expected him to be pleased, to feel _triumph_ at her inevitable fall. She’d expected gloating and bargaining and _so many things_ that would have made sense—so she’d been thrown, when she’d been met with surprise instead. When the bond had gone silent with the only echo of his astonishment, and something else. Something that had felt too warm to be from him. 

And suddenly, all at once, Rey had found her counter.

* * *

The first time she imagined peeling off his clothes, it had been a shock to them both. She could feel something like a blush through the bond, could feel it warming her cheeks as if it were her own, and it was, she thinks. Not that she would let it show. 

Her fingers curling under his thick, black tunic. Splaying over firm skin marred by her hand. She imagined touching each one with something more gentle, something like regret. 

A shudder of surprise through the bond rang out like a shout, and his retreat had been instant, thrown by her boldness.

But if there is anything to be said for the son of Leia Organa and Han Solo—it is that he doesn’t back down from a challenge.

He sent her fresh images of his mouth hot on her breasts and her belly and even between her legs—and it’s something she’s never thought of, something she’s never even _considered_ —but it never really leaves her now. That image. Now she has a hard time _not_ thinking about what his mouth might feel like, how warm it might be in all the places it isn’t meant for.

She thought that maybe that would be the worst of it, that maybe _this_ would be all she might suffer—but she’d been wrong.

She’d been so, so wrong.

* * *

She’s in her cabin, when she first experiences the sensation of his cock in her mouth. It isn’t real, and it isn’t actually happening—but the images are so bright and so visceral that her imagination takes over. It makes it _feel_ as if she might actually be choking on the hard, thick length of him. 

Rey sends him an image of her teeth coming down, even if deep down, the image isn’t nearly as repulsive as she leads him to believe.

Ben doesn’t prod her for a week.

* * *

She can sense that he’s not alone, when she pushes the fantasy of her straddling his face, her knees pressed tight around his ears as he struggles for breath, licking her in a way she’d not even known about until he’d planted the seed in her mind. 

She shows him out of breath and begging through the bond for relief, but Rey just presses tighter, forces his tongue deeper still.

The way she senses his flustered state amongst the other First Order officers fills her with an indescribable satisfaction.

* * *

She’s doing reconnaissance with Finn when he assaults her with vivid images of her tied up. She can see her hands bound to a rack, her ankles tethered in the same way—and every stitch of her clothing is nowhere to be found. 

She is forced to endure the echo of what it might be like if he were to torture her this way, not with pain but with toe-curling pleasure as he teases and touches to his heart’s content without her being able to do a thing about it. 

Finn asks her after it she’s sick, but she only wipes the sweat from her brow and keeps going.

* * *

After a few weeks, Rey knows she will have to get creative, if she is to outdo him.

She feeds him fantasies that she thinks will really rile him, ones of his gloved hands at her throat, applying a pressure that is firm but manageable, just enough to leave her breathless. 

She can’t be sure at what point his knee comes between her legs, or why she’s suddenly riding the firm expanse while his fingers rob her of easy breath—and by the time she draws back in fear, she can’t even remember what the point of it was to begin with.

* * *

By the time she’s endured a month of this torture, of knotted ropes and bite marks and red handprints on both their skin—Kylo Ren really grows bold.

She can sense when it’s different, when it isn’t the shadow of projection being pushed into her mind but _actually_ _him_ —his presence there but _not there_ in a way that only she can see him. 

She looks around to the other members of the Resistance with a frenetic energy, only to find that it is she alone who can see him. She tries her best to eat as if he isn’t even there, brings her spoon to her lips in the most normal way she can manage, but it’s incredibly difficult, given that she can tell by his casual dress that he is in his own quarters. 

He undresses slowly, carefully, tossing away his tunic until he is bare from the waist up, just as he had been so many months ago. He’d distracted her then too.

He watches her as the images come then, watches as her mouth parts quietly as she sees the way he imagines her hands on his body. She is slightly horrified but _gravely_ aroused when his hand slides beneath the waistband of his trousers, moving in a way that makes it too obvious what he’s doing, even if she can’t see.

She is horrified with the realization that she _wants_ to. See, that is. Even more so that she’s fairly certain he _knows_ this.

He doesn’t show her when he comes, severing the bond before she can see what his face looks like when he falls apart, and Rey is confused when he’s gone, realizing that she feels regret that she didn’t get to.

* * *

She tells herself that it is only payback, when she opens the bond at the opportune moment. That she is merely giving him a taste of his own medicine, trying to unsettle him as he did her. 

And the look of surprise in his features makes it a little worth it, at first, when she makes herself visible to only him in the midst of a meeting with Hux and the other higher ups. She sits cross legged on her mattress, almost seeming to be resting _right_ on the meeting table in Kylo’s eyes—deliberately pulling one foot out after another as she spreads her legs. 

She wears nothing but the bands over her breasts and the threadbare underwear she owns, but he doesn’t seem to mind how lacking she is. His eyes are wide and dark as she slips her fingers beneath the tiny scrap of cloth, sliding through wet flesh to touch herself in a way she hasn’t really had much time for since the lonely nights of Jakku. 

He isn’t listening to whatever Hux is saying now, and she is too focused on keeping herself only in Kylo’s vision to make it out herself, and she realizes how foolish she is. She could be gathering intel, she could be obtaining information to bring them _down_ —but she realizes all at once that she doesn’t care about it at this moment. 

She cares about the way his mouth seems too tight for comfort. She cares about the darkness of his eyes and the hungry look that lives there. She cares about the way he’s leaning forward as if he can bring himself close enough to—what? 

_Oh._

He’s showing her. 

Showing her his lips and his tongue buried between her legs, licking until the fire burns hotter, _brighter_ —and this isn’t what she wanted from this, this isn’t what she meant to _do—_ but she’s so close, and she _wants_ him to touch her, she _wants him to_ , and she—

She closes the bond just before she shudders with her orgasm, having almost forgotten completely. 

She doesn’t really know after who actually won that round.

* * *

The worst of it is that he knows her real weakness.

He knows that there is a part of him she yearns for, a name he doesn’t claim anymore.

One night he shows her what it might be like to be with Ben Solo. What it might feel like to have gentle hands peeling away her leggings and her tunic. How it might be to feel those hands touching between her legs and teasing at her breasts. Feel his mouth soft and warm against hers as something long and thick slides inside to fill her.

She can feel his big body hard and solid above her, feel the muscles in his shoulders roll beneath her fingers as he pounds a steady rhythm between her legs, whispering in her ear about how lovely she is, how _perfect_ she is, how much he _wants_ her.

And she doesn’t fight this one, she _can’t_ —forgetting that there are winners and losers, forgetting that this is a terrible game they’re playing, clinging to the farce of this make-believe he’s giving her. Indulging for a moment in what could have been. 

She hears his soft sigh in her ear, feels his hot length between her legs, and Rey gives herself to every part of it, knowing she’ll regret it when the dream ends. Ben tells her she could have this, if she wanted it, and for a small moment, she believes him. Even if she knows it isn’t true. 

She shuts him out after, no longer wanting to play.

* * *

When she has lived a week of the silence she used to hope for, Rey can’t really say why it makes her feel sort of hollow. 

She goes about her business as usual, says all the right things, does all the right things—but there’s an emptiness that wasn’t there before. 

She blames Kylo, tells herself it’s because he showed her things she didn’t know a thing about before, but she wonders sometimes if that’s all it is. Would she feel the way she does, imagining those things with someone else? She tries to picture herself touching Poe like she imagined touching Ben. Tries to imagine Finn kissing her the way Kylo had shown her he wanted to.

Nothing.

Absolutely _nothing,_ much to her dismay. 

She wonders if that is an answer, or a verdict. 

* * *

She’s not sure who steps in on who—because to her, she is in her bedroom, and she senses that for Kylo, it is much the same. And yet they are together, amidst each other’s things and their space, so far away and yet so _close._

She is reminded again of the oddness that is their bond. 

He doesn’t show her ropes and bite marks and gloved hands—he doesn’t show her anything. But he doesn’t have to. Not really. She can see everything he’s feeling written all over his face. She wonders if she is the only one who can.

She doesn’t look at him. “What do you want?”

“I would think that’s obvious.”

“It’s never been obvious to me.”

“Hasn’t it?”

There are fleeting images of his outstretched hand and her, just her, at his side, and it isn’t this that scares her, not really. It’s the way he imagines it happening. It’s the throwing away of everything she knows is right just to be with him. She knows that Ben, that _Kylo_ is prepared to do that, but is she?

But it’s hard to think, with him so near. 

It always has been. 

“If you think you’re going to rile me,” she says carefully. “You won’t.”

“I think we both know that’s not what we've been doing, not for a while.”

“It’s all that _I’ve_ been doing.”

“Is it?” She hears his steps across the tile of his own room, even as he moves further into hers. “Because I don’t think so. I think you’ve been baring more to me than perhaps you mean to.”

“Well you’ve always had a convoluted idea of what the truth is,” she mutters bitterly.

“And you’ve always seemed to have blind eye to it.”

She makes a frustrated sound, closing her eyes. “Can’t you just _go?_ ”

“I can,” he answers evenly. She can hear his footsteps circling, knows that if she were to open her eyes—he would be there in her peripherals. “If you can look at me and tell me you want me to. If you can _mean_ it.”

“I do,” she hisses.

“Then open your eyes, Rey,” he urges softly. “Open your eyes, and tell me to go.”

It’s not an easy thing, obliging him, but she lets her lashes flutter open, seeing him come into view in blurred pieces, until he’s just… _there_. Just as dark, just as menacing as always—but not really. Not if you know how to look. 

“Say it,” he half-whispers. “Tell me you want me to go.”

“I…” Her mouth remains parted, her throat feels too dry—and the words are there, trapped on her tongue and waiting for her to release them. “I want…”

She does, she thinks, mostly, she _does_ . She wants him to go. It’s just that when he looks at her like he is, with those dark eyes of his, she is reminded of that whisper of _what could be_ ; she almost forgets about _what is._

“You can’t do it,” he accuses. “Because you don’t actually _want it.”_

Is that true? 

She finds herself confused, images in her head, seeds that he’d planted—but ones _she’s_ allowed to grow. Ones that have taken root in her mind to burrow deep. 

She can see it again, that little spark that set her on this path to begin with. She can see a simple kiss flitting through her mind, making her question everything. And he’s closer now, close enough that she can see that his clothes are softer than usual, less rigid. Close enough to notice the way his lip trembles as if he is actually afraid that she _will_ send him away.

She could reach out and touch him, if she wanted to—and isn’t that the crux of it?

He’s watching her eyes and her mouth and everywhere that he can look, studying, she thinks, for signs that she doesn’t want it, the way he leans in. Treating her carefully, _delicately_ —showing her that promise of something she’s only seen in a daydream, in a nightmare. 

Showing her a piece of Ben Solo. 

So she doesn’t fight it, despite the whisper that she should, when he brings that dizzied daydream to life, when his lips press soft and warm against hers. It’s quiet, calculated, everything that he is, but there’s something else there too. Something like want, and need, and _regret_ —and she wonders what it is that Kylo Ren might regret. Wonders what might cause the sadness that she feels pouring off him in waves. 

There are still images in his mind, ones that he allows her to sift through easily, but there are more than just the ones that are meant to shock her. He wants those; he wants the pain and the submission and everything else he’s sent into her mind in the dark, but there’s softness there too. There’s a gentleness she thinks even he himself doesn’t fully understand. One that some part of him is saving for her. One she’s not sure he ever meant for her to see. 

So she curls her fingers in his tunic; she pulls him closer. She doesn’t think about what could have been, or what might be. Rey thinks about what _is._

His mouth turns hotter, his lips heavier, and it’s not what she pictured, not even what _he_ pictured—but that’s okay, she thinks. Considering neither of them could have imagined this. Not really. 

His hands wander, and Rey lets them—feeling his fingertips bare and searing at the bit of skin between the hem of her shirt and trousers. There is a fleeting sense of irritation at the lack of gloves, one that surprises her, but not him. Not if his quiet smile against her mouth is any indication. 

She wonders if there is something to this notion of his. Wonders if she _has_ been baring more than she meant to.

“Next time,” he murmurs.

Rey wonders if there will actually be one.

She thinks he will pull her shirt away, so she is surprised when his fingers curl under her leggings instead. There is a heartbeat where he seems worried she’ll stop him, but when he is met with no protest, he slowly begins to peel them down her thighs and her legs until there is nothing to protect her from him. 

She can see it there in his head, what he intends to do—and she can’t find it in her to be hesitant. Not with the way she wants it so badly, even if she’ll never admit that to him. Not that she needs to, probably. 

Her shirt is bunched somewhere above her navel, and his hair tickles her thighs, and her heart pounds, and her blood rushes, and _kriff_ —the way her toes curl. Only from him touching her a _little._ His tongue is as heavy and warm as his kiss, licking between her legs and using her sounds of surprise and her garbled thoughts that flow through the bond to spur him onwards. 

She bites at her fist as her eyes shut tight, fingers winding through the thick mass of his hair as his head moves with every stroke of his tongue. She can feel a pressure building deep inside that is unfamiliar and frightening and _exhilarating_ —and she thinks later she will be embarrassed, by the way she bucks against his face, the way she shifts her hips to try and heighten the sensation. She can feel his pleasure through their bond, feel how pleased he is to make her feel this way, and it is _that_ she clings to, as his tongue touches and tastes and tantalizes. 

She doesn’t think about anything outside of the way he’s making her feel. 

And how he’s making her _feel._

He stokes the fire inside with only his tongue, and Rey’s mouth hangs open in a silent cry, her muscles wind tight, and there are stars in her vision that burn brighter than any she’s seen hanging in the night sky. She tries to keep her balance, tries to _hold on_ —but she can hear Ben’s voice in her mind, on her body, whispering to _let go._

So she does. 

She shivers and shakes and loses herself in what he gives her, her entire body reduced to little more than a pulsing heartbeat of sensation. She gasps for air even when there is none, and her fingers still grip his hair even as he turns his face to leave wet kisses along her thigh. 

She doesn’t look at him, not yet, knowing that when she does, this is real. That when she sees him wrecked as he ruins her, lips wet and eyes dark—that there will be nowhere else to hide from him. So she keeps her eyes shut tight as his lips move higher, climbing over her hip and her belly and higher still—keeping them shut even when the warm, wet weight of them settle over hers.

He could take more from her, if he wanted to; she doesn’t even think it could be called taking. She thinks she would _give_ it. 

So it’s surprising, when he doesn’t, when he only kisses her lazily, the taste of her on his tongue. 

“I wish you were good,” she whispers brokenly, feeling her throat tight with emotion.

“When I’m with you…” He brushes his nose back and forth across hers, a motion that feels like _Ben Solo_ and nothing like Kylo Ren. “I wish I was good too.”

But he isn’t, she thinks. She doesn’t know if he ever will be. 

So she pretends for a handful of seconds, as his lips mold to hers, that someday he will be. She fantasizes about a world where he can stay. Even if he can’t right now. 

He’s gone when she finally opens her eyes, and he takes all the warmth in the room with him. 

_Next time,_ he whispers through the bond.

Rey wonders if it will ever come.

* * *

It’s been difficult, shutting him out, more difficult than Rey could have ever anticipated. 

Maybe that’s because she isn’t really trying. Not as much as she should be.

She _knows_ now that there are chinks in her armor. Fissures in her walls that he is _just_ able to work himself between. She knows now it is because she lets him. Knows that it is because she doesn’t fight the images he sends her. Not really.

She is all too aware that they are less of a warning, and more of a promise. That it’s all inevitable.

It starts with a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Wooooo I finally posted an ambiguous ending. (And didn't turn it into a 7 chapter non linear.) 
> 
> Thanks for reading!  
> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/kylotrashforever)!  
> I made a [Twitter](https://mobile.twitter.com/KTF_Reylo), come follow me!


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